


A Thousand Words

by Captain_Emily



Category: DCU, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Emily/pseuds/Captain_Emily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger sits on an old stone bench, pondering his lost connection with humanity. With a painting and the offered hand of friendship, Luna helps him find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or DC Comics.

It was mid-afternoon in the sleepy little town of Ottery St. Catchpole. The sun shone high above, beaming mercilessly down on the land below. The town seemed all but deserted as its inhabitants stayed indoors, seeking refuge from the record high temperatures.

The Otter River wound through the green hills just outside of town. Due to the intense summer heat, the water level had fallen greatly and it was little more than a largish, muddy stream. An old stone bench, its seat worn smooth over the years, squatted on the bank in a small copse of trees. No one in the town could remember where the bench had come from, but from time to time citizens seeking peace could be found there, taking advantage of the solitude.

At present, a lone stranger slouched on the bench, a battered gray fedora pulled low over his eyes. A slightly rumpled trenchcoat and tie lay next to him, carelessly discarded in the heat. The sleeves of the man's white dress shirt were rolled up past his elbows. He seemed lost in thought, staring at but not really seeing the cracked and parched river bed.

Strains of music reluctantly drew the man from his musing as a lilting female voice drifted on the breeze from farther down the bank:

 _Do it with a giraffe, if you stand on a stool,_

 _Catch a yeti, who lives in the snows of Nepal-_

 _But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all._

The man looked up sharply. Surely he had misheard—? But the song had stopped as the singer—a young girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen—was now standing less than ten feet away, entwining the last few stems into a daisy chain of pale yellow flowers. Her large, silver eyes pinned him to his seat, her gaze intense. For a moment it seemed that she was staring not at him, but through him. Then she smiled and the feeling passed. Gray eyes met silver as he found himself being studied by the girl.

She spoke to him in a friendly, conversational tone that would have been far more appropriate for a couple of life-long friends meeting for their weekly brunch than for two total strangers.

"If you're just going to be sitting here anyway, may I please draw you?"

"You want to draw me? Why?"

"Why not?"

"I—I don't know why not. I suppose it couldn't hurt."

She hummed her agreement as she draped the daisy chain over her head, tugging her ponytail through to keep it in place. She pulled a tattered patchwork quilt from her leather satchel, then plopped bonelessly down on the blanket and tucked her knees demurely beneath the hem of her shamrock-green sundress. A sketch pad and a set of charcoal pencils appeared from the depths of the bag. Choosing a pencil seemingly at random, her hand hovered over the pad as she turned her eyes back to him. He found her silent study vaguely unnerving, especially when it continued for several minutes.

"I'm Luna, by the way."

"You can call me John."

"Hello, John." And then she began to sketch.

John tried to recover his previous train of thought but ultimately found it futile. There was something about the girl that prevented him from falling back into his earlier melancholy, so he began watching her instead.

Her head was bent over the pad and she was humming the same melody he'd heard her singing earlier. Dark lines crisscrossed the page as her eyes and her pencil followed the curve of his jaw and the slightly crooked silhouette of his nose. A lock of blonde hair tumbled free from her ponytail and she distractedly tucked it behind her ear, leaving a smudge of charcoal above her right eye. Despite the intense heat, she seemed untouched and cool—a delicate ice sculpture come to life. With her lilting voice, pale eyes, crown of flowers, green dress, and winsome manner, she seemed almost fey, as though she'd just popped in from Fairyland for a bit of relaxation in the sun. Even her name had an ethereal feel to it. _Luna_.

Craning his neck, John could see the planes of his face taking shape on the paper, but she shifted and it was once again hidden from view.

With nothing else to do, he relaxed back onto the bench, letting his mind wander as he lost himself in the sounds of the breeze whistling through the grass and Luna's airy melody.

He had no idea how long he sat there, modeling for the would-be Rembrandt. It seemed like an eternity, or perhaps only a few minutes, had passed before she was standing and stretching like a cat after a day spent sunning on a windowsill. He stood as well and was surprised to find himself smiling.

"So? May I see it?" He reached for the sketchpad, but Luna snapped it shut and tucked it away in her bag.

"It's not finished yet."

Unsure of how to respond, he merely watched as she picked up the quilt and began carefully folding it. Once she'd stuffed it back into her satchel, her eyes swiveled up to meet John's.

"It needs to be cleaned up a bit. Will you be back here tomorrow? You can see it then, if you'd like."

"I'd like that very much."

"Tomorrow then!" And she raced off, back toward the quiet little town.

oOo

Luna Lovegood ran through the streets of Ottery St. Catchpole. Shrugging the straps of her satchel up onto her shoulders, she spread her arms and threw her head back, reveling in the feel of the wind as it tugged at her hair and skirt. She loved running. When you ran fast enough, it felt just like flying. In fact, it felt more like flying than sitting on a broomstick and hanging on for dear life ever did.

Coming to a cylindrical black house, she sprinted through the battered gate and up the walk. Small flecks of peeling paint drifted to the ground as she threw open the door. Slamming it behind her, she stuck her head into her father's office and called out to him with a cheerful "hello Daddy!"

He didn't respond, but then she hadn't really expected him to. Once Xenophilius Lovegood got involved in his work, the outside world—including his daughter—ceased to exist. Although this sometimes saddened Luna, she had grown used to it over the years. Besides, she had far too much on her mind right now to let it bother her.

Luna raced up the steps and into her bedroom, tossing the satchel on her bed and immediately forgetting about it. The pale yellow walls of her room were covered with sketches and paintings of fantastic creatures and portraits of her family and few friends. On a normal day she would stop and smile at a few of her favorite works of art. Instead she propped a blank canvas up on her battered easel. Grabbing a palette and her box of brushes and pigments, she began mixing. She had a specific image in mind and it was imperative that she get the colors perfect. Beneath her skilled fingers, shades of deep emerald green, rust red, and forget-me-not blue began to emerge.

The colors finished, she grabbed a brush, dipped it in the emerald paint, and began to transfer the image from her mind to the canvas.

Five and a half hours later, long after the sun had retired for the night, Luna's masterpiece was complete. Retrieving her mother's wand from its place of honor in her bedside table, she cast a quick spell on the canvas. Then, without bothering to change clothes or wash the paint from her hair, she sank into bed. She was asleep within minutes.

oOo

For the second day in a row, John found himself on the old stone bench, staring out at the sluggishly flowing Otter River. If anyone had asked him exactly why he'd chosen to return, he wasn't sure he'd be able to answer. It was true that he was curious about the sketch, but a part of him just wanted to see the fey Luna again. Why? He didn't know exactly. Perhaps it was to see whether or not she really was a fairy after all? Or maybe it was just that she'd made him smile. It seemed like so long ago that he'd last been happy—

But that was another thought for another time.

He scanned the horizon for his young acquaintance, spotting her on the path from town. Her gait was slowed due to a large parcel that she carried awkwardly before her. It was tall enough that she couldn't see over it and had to peek around the edge to make sure she was still on the path. John stood to help but she waved him off. As she neared, he realized that the parcel was flat and wrapped in an old paint-stained bed sheet. She propped it up against the bench before taking a seat next to him. Reaching into her satchel, Luna pulled out a scroll tied with silver ribbon and handed it to him. He tugged on one end of the ribbon and let it fall into his lap before carefully unrolling the scroll.

His own face stared back up at him, but the sketch looked incomplete. His hat was half-drawn, only his eyes were shaded, and his ear was missing. John couldn't help but feel disappointed. In his mind, he'd somehow made Luna out to be this curious and magical being and his expectations had been high. But then she'd given him this half-finished, amateurish sketch…

"Thank you. It's nice."

"No, it's not. I didn't finish it."

Despite feeling let-down, John chuckled at her honesty. Luna met his eyes and again he had the oddest sensation that she was looking into him, searching through his innermost thoughts and memories. Whatever it was she was looking for, she must have found it as she smiled and picked up the larger parcel.

"I didn't finish it because I was working on this. I didn't think you'd mind." She seemed hesitant to give it to him, which surprised him. Although he admittedly didn't know her very well, from what he did know she seemed like a confident person. Reluctantly, she relinquished it into his hands.

John removed the sheet and the world held its breath.

He inhaled deeply, blinking away tears as he stared at the painting. He was looking at himself. Not the face he currently wore, but his true face.

From the colors to the details of the architecture, the Martian landscape was perfect—as though he were viewing a memory instead of a painting.

He was standing on a dune, looking down over the ruins of his home. As if by magic, the sands in the painting were shifting in an invisible wind, dust swirling around his boots. The same wind was causing ripples in his blue cape. And he stood above it all, proud but sad, his green skin standing out starkly against the red sands and rust-tinged sky.

Two ghostly figures were with him. Though transparent, they had the same verdant skin. A woman stood behind, her hand resting supportively on his shoulder. A little girl, her small hand tucked into his much larger one, stood at his side, staring up at him in adoration. He knew these two, and knew them well. Without consciously realizing it, he whispered their names.

 _"M'yri'ah. K'hym."_

And suddenly, he remembered.

He'd left his self-imposed exile, tucked away on the moon in the safe haven of the Watchtower, because someone had accused him of losing track of humanity—that of mankind as well as his own. For over a month he'd walked the Earth, looking for that one thing that could help him rekindle the old spark of life within himself. To give him a reason to continue his chosen path as a hero.

And this ethereal young woman at his side, with a single painting, brought the memories rushing back. He remembered the love he felt with his Martian family. He remembered the easy acceptance of his superhero comrades. And he remembered the joyful warmth that once flooded him with every grateful _thank you_ that he'd received from the multitude of people whose lives he had changed here on Earth.

The old cliché said that a picture was worth a thousand words, but as he stared at the image of his home and his family with a million different feelings and memories vying for dominance, he found that he was unable to say anything at all.

As though she was afraid of disturbing him, Luna whispered, "I hope you don't think I was prying. My grandmother was a bit of a seer and I'm afraid I might have inherited some of her talent."

The man forced himself to look away from the painting and to meet Luna's eyes. "Do not apologize. I can't thank you enough for what you've given me today. You've reminded me what it means to be human."

Luna merely nodded, as though she knew all of this already. And perhaps she did.

"Thank you Luna. I am truly in your debt."

"Can't we just be friends and call it even?"

The man laughed. An honest-to-God laugh, and the first in many months. "I'd like that very much."

The girl grinned and carefully helped him rewrap the painting.

"You're going to be leaving soon, aren't you?"

"Yes. I've just remembered that I've got a job to do. But I'll take time to come back and visit."

The girl nodded, and the pair lapsed into a companionable silence as they watched several fish jumping in the river.

"So if we're friends now, what do I call you?"

The man relaxed, letting his features shift back into their natural form. Green skin, prominent forehead, and red eyes.

"You can call me J'onn."

"Well J'onn, if you have time before you leave, I could show you around the town. It really is quite lovely, and there's a bakery near my house that has the best cinnamon buns in the whole world!"

J'onn stood, tucking the scroll in a pocket of his blue cape and the painting under one brawny arm. "That sounds wonderful. Lead on, Miss Luna."

And with that, the unlikely duo headed into town for cinnamon buns, tea, and the start of a lifelong friendship.

 

* * *

Author's Note: Well over a year ago, I found a crossover generator on Fiction Alley. I played around with it for a bit and one of the prompts I received was "Luna Lovegood painted a picture of Martian Manhunter." I kept the prompt, scribbled down a few ideas, and would revisit the file every few months or so, jotting down a couple of new sentences or phrases. It was only within the last month that I decided to sit down and actually finish it, and this was the result.

This story has been a long time coming. I hope you enjoyed it.

And before I forget "The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered At All" isn't mine either. It belongs to Terry Pratchett and Nanny Ogg.


End file.
